


The Good Stuff

by NinjaSalad



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (When It’s Not Inconveniencing At All), (like Frick lol), (no one in the fic has that but tagging jic), Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Anxiety, Batman Has Big Hands And He Can Carry People That Deserve It, Bruce Wayne Snuggles, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Hugging, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Alfred Pennyworth, Mild Angst, Mild Language, Reader Is Part Of The Batfamily, Reader Works With The Batfamily, Reader is a Vigilante, Sick Fic, The Panicky Feeling Of Inconveniencing Someone, Vomiting, batman hugs, falling asleep, snuggles, they/them pronouns, they/them pronouns for reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaSalad/pseuds/NinjaSalad
Summary: Scooting away from the edge and landing on their rear, they clutch their midsection, curling up until their forehead makes contact with their knees. “B, I–I don’t feel too good…” they whimper, their chest filling with slight dread as they bring attention to themself.Reader Sick Fic with Batdad!
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Reader
Kudos: 24





	The Good Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> people always say: if you can’t find what you want in this world, then make it yourself.
> 
> and that’s _exactly_ what this spinch did.
> 
> (in about 5-1/2 hours straight through lol)
> 
> enjoy! <3

Two costumed figures crouch upon a rooftop, situated near the edge, overseeing the city below, still as gargoyles; Waiting to strike down any crimes swiftly as a flash of lightning. 

Keeping a close eye on the skyline, the younger of the two reminisces on when they were suiting up earlier that evening, and had noticed their body felt a little… _off,_ they’d supposed. They had brushed it off at the time—thinking it was most likely from not hydrating enough—and followed their usual routine of drinking an electrolyte-filled sports drink, and eating a protein bar before setting out for the usual evening’s patrol.

Now, it seems, that _off_ feeling is returning full force. And somewhat violently, as well.

Scooting away from the edge and landing on their rear, they clutch their midsection, curling up until their forehead makes contact with their knees. “B, I–I don’t feel so good…” they whimper, their chest filling with slight dread as they bring attention to themself.

—And _yes,_ they know Batman would _never_ be mad at them for telling him that they aren’t feeling well, but their brain and body each like to do their own things sometimes.

It gets annoying, but what can they do when they have an anxiety disorder and ran out of their preferred method of taming it just two days ago?

Ask _Batman_ for help? …Well, yes _would_ be the correct answer, but their anxiety says _no, don’t bother him_ and that voice is **much** stronger.

They see Batman turn to them in their peripheral: The dim nighttime aura of Gotham casting The Bat’s figure in shadows; streaks of lighting from the nearby inefficient lamppost trying its best, but failing to do more than make the darkness seem a little less deep than it always is. 

Batman doesn’t stand upright, like they had expected he would; possibly using his Detective Prowess to _detect_ their rising emotions. Although what’s _more likely,_ is he knows how costumed vigilantes react to sudden movements when under the influence of minor-to-major illnesses.

His ensuing approach is well-paced from experience, no doubt; quicker than a stalk, yet slower than a walk, considering he’s crouching all the while. Akin to a smooth crab-walk, they compare through their now fatigued mind.

Soon enough, Batman reaches their side, laying a gentle, gauntlet-less hand—which they hadn’t even _noticed_ he took off—atop their head. When he carefully moves it down to their forehead, he brings his other bare hand to their cheek, and they relish in the cool-warmth of it all as they anticipate him asking the Million Dollar Question:

  


_Why didn’t you tell me earlier?_

  


What is _said_ instead—perhaps somewhat unsurprisingly, given The Bat’s track record with Gothemites and his own children—is almost enough to make them cry with how utterly _kind_ and _soft_ his tone is.

“Let’s get you home, kiddo.” Batman runs his palm along their forehead, his pinky brushing their hairline while checking their temperature, and gently tugs them up into his arms for ease of travel.

Being snuggly held against Batman’s chest is enough of a distraction and comfort that they don’t anticipate what he says next, nor brace for what happens _after._

“When we get to the Batmobile, I’ll call and ask Nightwing and Red Robin to finish patrol tonight, while Agent A and I keep an eye on you.”

Even the mere _thought_ of interrupting Dick and Tim on their night off spent with family sends their anxiety into _maximum-overdrive,_ which in turn upsets their stomach more than it already was, and when their mad-scramble to extricate themself from Batman’s steady grip fails _spectacularly_ —he is _very_ strong and _definitely_ used to wrangling unruly people—ends up with them throwing up all over The Dark Knight’s boots, they do the only thing that seems to make any sense to their fear-addled hindbrain.

  


They cry.

  


_Hard._

  


Which is _incredibly_ unusual for them, if Batman’s sudden freezing in place is to be trusted—which they one-hundred percent _do_ trust, even while heaving chest-aching sobs on account of having just thrown up on _The _Batman.__

Being one of the most genius persons in Gotham, it only takes The Bat about five seconds to realize why, exactly, they had become agitated enough to the point of making themself _sick,_ whereupon he pulls them in tighter, hugging and placating them with soothing words; his deep, baritone voice aiding in his endeavor. 

“It’s alright; I’m _not_ mad or upset with you. I know how hard it is for you to tell what your body’s feeling, and I’m proud of you for telling me even though it makes you anxious. And I’m sorry for upsetting you, but D and T won’t mind covering the next two hours for us…” 

Through their painful cries, they catch all of what Batman says, which gives them pause; hiccuping during his continued murmuring while their exhausted brain processes his words. 

“It’s alre– _hic_ –already that la– _hic_ –late?” They sniffle, then forcefully blow a puff of air out their nose when the smell of their own sick reaches them, crinkling their brow in displeasure—and guilt. 

Batman pulls away just enough to poke their schnozz, distracting them as he steps away from the ick on an unfortunate rooftop—the owner of said rooftop to be receiving a complimentary Building Cleaning & Retrofitting notification from Wayne Enterprises in the next couple of days—and begins making his way to the Batmobile stashed inconspicuously in an alleyway four blocks over. 

“Yeah, you made it nearly to the end. That’s _impressive,_ considering you have a fever of 101° Fahrenheit,” _Bruce_ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood as he climbs down the fire-escape with one arm—having sneakily put a gauntlet back on, while leaving the other glove off to keep checking their temperature with his hand situated at the nape of their neck. 

Gripping his cape in their fist, they glance around in confusion at the fact that they are at ground level, knowing that the flying-mammal-themed superhero likes to stay at building-height to get the drop on unsuspecting evil-doers, so they decide to ask about it. 

“Why’re we– _hic_ –on the sidewalk?” They question, reaching up and grasping a pointy ear of Batman’s cowl, enjoying feeling the sleek-quality of the material, as they now have no thought-to-body filter, apparently. 

“Because this is where pedestrians are supposed to walk, of course,” Bruce replies with a wry smile, letting them continue their exploration of his protective helmet. His once-again gauntlet-less hand is placed on their back to keep them steady as he ambulates across the dashes of poorly-lit concrete; his cape fluttering in the slight night-time breeze. 

Poking the tip of B’s cowl’s Bat-Ear-Thing, they pout at him, less-than-gently tugging on his cape held within their tiring grasp. “No, why– _hic_ –why aren’t we swing– _hic_ ow–swinging across the– _HIC_ frick–rooftops?” 

Rubbing slow circles into their lumbar, Bruce gives an actual answer, though if only to calm them down, since it seems his joking responses are stressing them out. 

“Walking is far easier on the stomach than swooping and falling; I would know,” he sighs, turning between two buildings which hide the Batmobile in all her glory. 

Bruce unlocks and opens the beautiful vehicle with a keyfob from his utility pouch, continuing to recount his tale. “Considering I, myself, have tried grappling back with an even higher fever. _Not_ a good idea,” he shudders at the memory, carefully lifting and settling them into the shotgun seat. He buckles them up only _after_ removing his cape and laying it over them. 

They snuggle up under the weighted and warm cloak as Bruce climbs into the driver’s seat, closing the Win-Door of the sleek car, as they like to call it. Dick refers to it as the ‘Lid’ of the Batmobile, while Tim uses the scientific name ‘Hatch’, and Damian ignores _”Everyone’s stupidity,”_ and just calls it an ‘Opening’. 

Cass likes to call it a Win-Door too, so she’s their _favorite_ sibling. 

The sudden rumbling from the engine turning over startles away their wandering thoughts, making them whine from distress in their half–asleep state. 

A large, gentle hand pats them on the head comfortingly, soon moving to rest on their upper chest, and staying there. The rumbling sound rises to a dull roar around them, before petering out into a comforting purr as the landscape passes by; the warmth of the two weights spreads through them, lulling them into contentment, even through their sudden pounding headache. 

Drifting pleasantly, they only notice they’ve _stopped_ moving when they _start_ moving again. 

They begin taking stock of themself, though only get as far as figuring out they’re being held in someone they trust’s arms, and give up when the pain of trying to _move_ their eyes sets off another bout of extreme nausea. 

Apparently they must have made a noise of some kind, since someone starts stroking their face with something _wet_ and _cold,_ and then other sensations start filtering in; like the feeling of a squishy softness behind their head, and an all-encompassing _heat_ covering them from the chest down. 

But it’s too hot, and their drink from earlier wasn’t enough, ‘cause now they’re _really_ thirsty, and there’s freezing cold air on their face which _hurts,_ and their head aches _so bad,_ and _everything_ is _too much,_ and _nothing_ is making _any_ sense, and they’re _scared,_ and they just want _**Bruce—**_

  


There’s a slight pinch on their arm, and their mind goes soft at the edges. Everything is less intense, their pain is fading away, they can kind of see, although everything is blurry through their…tears? Oh, they had been crying again. 

Quiet, calm, soothing sounds come from beside them, prompting them to turn their head—their muscles feeling like molasses as they do—to find Bruce, still in his Batman suit, although with the cowl thrown back to show his worried face, which changes expression to a relieved one; a sincere smile lighting up the dim corners of the Batcave they’ve suddenly found themself in. 

“Hey there, kiddo. You feeling better now, bud?” Bruce asks, leaning in closer to wipe away the salty water-tracks from their cheeks. 

Too floaty to feel self-conscious about whatever the _hell_ just happened, they nod, raising an arm to fist at their tired eyes. “‘m feelin’ all floaty…” They glance over in confusion at the IV connected to the hand Bruce is holding—and has _been_ holding, probably the entire time. 

Chuckling, Bruce squeezes their hand three times, grinning amusedly. “That’s what the _good_ painkillers feel like,” he snorts quietly. “And paired with the fever reducer, I bet you’re feeling pretty zooted right now, huh?” Smiling kindly at them, he shifts his chair closer, grabbing a cup and straw for them, and holds it out under their mouth. 

“Mm…my hands are warm,” they fuzzily reply, drinking deeply from the stainless steel travel tumbler Alfred _always_ keeps in the Batcave for when they forget to bring their water down to the cave with them. 

  


Alfred is a cinnamon roll: _too pure,_ too good for this world. 

  


Trying to contain his chortles and failing, Bruce’s sudden bout of laughter at them having _apparently_ been talking out loud sets off their own; _almost_ making them snort bright-neon liquid up their nose, avoiding their dreaded fate by pure chance. 

Setting the now-empty container down on the side table, Bruce makes to get up, scaring them into thinking _he’s leaving he’s leaving **he’s leaving** ,_ so they grab _tightly_ onto his hand; pleading eyes sufficing in place of the words they can’t find. 

Returning their desperate look with one of deep concern, Bruce Wayne, father of _Too-Many-To-Count,_ carefully climbs onto the bed with them, curling around their form; pulling them into a lung-emptying embrace. 

The medical cot is large and comfortable; built for these _exact_ occasions in mind. It’s usually reserved for a silly bird or bat, and not them, though, since they normally manage to stay _out_ of trouble, as much the others stay _in_ it. 

A couple of near-silent beeps sound out behind them, from the big medical-thing on-a-stick, which directly coincides with the abrupt sleepiness that hits them moments later. 

Ah, _that’s_ what B was getting up to do. It’s just the kind of thoughtful thing they’d expect from such a big, nice dad-dude that elbow-drops baddies on a semi-nightly basis. 

“Goodnight, kiddo. Sleep well,” The Batman’s voice layers under Bruce’s like a well-worn sweater; an assurance that nothing bad will happen on his watch. It creates a distinct feeling of warmth and safety which allows them to feel at peace while suddenly dropping off to sleep because of The Good Stuff. 

🦇 

It would only be many weeks later the two would find out that Alfred—that _sneaky_ grandfatherly man—had snuck pictures of them while they were sleeping, and distributed copies to the entire Batfamily. 

Bruce drooling a small river will forever live on, just as their own adorably smushed-into-a-pillow face surely will, as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading, and hope you have a wonderful week! please leave a kudos and/or comment if u can! even just a 💖/<3 provides me with a million ccs of dopamine 🥰
> 
> {and yes, Alfred was the one that administered the medications ❤️ we love a funky grandpa}


End file.
